Weekends are sacred.
Not in a religious way.
In a don’t-text-me-unless-someone-is-bleeding kind of way.
Weekends are for me to recharge. To reconnect. To come back to myself.
I’ve realized something about the way I move through the week — I give a lot. Energy. Attention. Emotional labor. Smiles when I’m tired. Patience when I’m stretched thin. And by Friday, I can feel it in my bones… I’m running on fumes.
So I’ve started treating the weekend like a reset button.
For some people, “touching grass” means literally stepping outside and grounding themselves. For me? It’s the beach.
The beach is my version of logging off.
There’s something about standing at the edge of the water, toes buried in sand, salt in the air, that reminds me how small my worries actually are. The ocean doesn’t care about my inbox. The tide doesn’t rush because I’m anxious. The waves don’t compete. They just come in. And go out. Steady. Certain. Unapologetic.
I sit there and breathe deeper without trying.
I put my phone down (okay… eventually).
I let the sun hit my face and I remember that I am more than my responsibilities.
The beach recalibrates me. It pulls me out of my head and drops me back into my body. It reminds me that rest isn’t laziness — it’s maintenance. It’s survival. It’s self-respect.
Weekends aren’t about doing more.
They’re about being.
And when my feet hit the sand, it feels like I’m touching something real again. Like I’m plugging back into myself.
Recharge.
Reconnect.
Return.
That’s the energy I’m carrying into the week ahead.
